


Moth and Memory

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-14
Updated: 2006-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once they had hopes and plans, schemes and tomorrows. Now, he has only memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moth and Memory

The floor creaks as he walks over to the window. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the panes, and stirred-up dust dances in the rays, little swirls and storms of motion. His shoulder brushes the curtain, and a dozen or so brown moths fly out of the heavy fabric, fluttering around his face and bumping against the glass with soft taps.

_You know what that means, don't you? Amnesia._

The window faces south, overlooking the garden. Green and tangled, framed by gnarled trees, the garden choked with springtime flowers growing wild. There is an old stone bench under one of the trees, half-hidden by vines.

_No, I'm serious. Ha-bloody-ha, stop that. Rotten luck. I read it in a book._

He turns away from the window and crosses the room again. The north side of the cottage is darker, cooler, hidden from the sun most of the year. The room facing the lane would make a good library: three walls without windows, a nice large fireplace, wallpaper that truly deserved to be torn down and replaced by shelves. The only thing in the room now is an old rug, so tattered and faded the charmed weave scarcely moves anymore. It is a gentle pastoral scene, green and gold fields within a braided border, tiny men and women dancing beneath showers of pink blossoms.

_Oh, that tickles, these little thready blokes squirming like that. Why d'ya suppose they left this rug here, when they took everything else?_

He walks into the kitchen next. The window over the sink faces west, into the sunlit woods that surround the cottage. He leans against the counter, hands on the edge of the sink, concentrating on the feel of the cool porcelain beneath his fingertips, breathing in slowly to catch the faint scents of burnt sugar and cinnamon and wood smoke.

_I saw that look. That's not normal, you know. You don't even like to cook. You just like to shag in kitchens._

The bedroom is on the east side of the cottage. The garden wraps around the corner of the house, and just outside the bedroom window there is a rose arbour, once painted white but now faded to a dull grey and wrapped in dead, brown vines. There are cobwebs in the corners, desiccated moths on the window sill. He looks down at them for several seconds, imagining that he can see them twitch, but it is only his breath.

_No, look. It will work. I can take the money from my account; the goblins don't care about little things like murder convictions. You talk to that property bloke and we'll -- well, it will still be here, when this is done. It'll work, I promise._

Remus turns away from the window and leaves the bedroom. His footsteps echo in the empty cottage, and the hinges of the front door squeal angrily when he wrenches it open. Moths burst from the rotting boards of the front steps. He swats at them impatiently and steps out, pulling the door shut with enough force to make the little house tremble.

_Yes, it needs some work. But you know how I love to paint. What? I do so clean up after myself!_

Down the steps, down the path, onto the lane. Remus pauses, turns around, looks at the house one more time. Its windows are like eyes, empty and dark.

_Rotten luck, Moony. Moths steal your memories away. Read it in a book._


End file.
